Memory
by sailorbutts
Summary: Her lips remembered that no one loved her more than Homura; so when she sold her soul to save her – well – Madoka was only returning the favour. One-shot, HomuMado, based on Younha's "Memory".


**A/N: **Everything I see that has anything to do with pairing is always from Homura's point of view, or one-sided on her behalf (which is actually ridiculous and I would be able to argue against thoroughly and crushingly) so I was like, screw this, go Madoka's pov! This is a songfic based on Younha's "Memory"; I'm kind of iffy about it and would really like feedback because I don't know what to think of it. Reviews would be thoroughly appreciated. uwu

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><p><strong>Memory – <strong>

Her eyes remembered.

When Akemi Homura first strutted into Madoka's line of sight, her eyes remembered that she had done so before. They traced every contour of her face with all the ease of being practiced, and seemed to recall that, this time, her hair was falling ever so slightly further to the left than the last. The deeper Madoka gazed into the sharp, world-weary violet of Homura's eyes the more violently her chest would stir; the more she stared the less control she had over whether or not she was. It was inexplicable and almost aggravating how much she was affected, but nevertheless, every time Akemi Homura was in the vicinity Madoka's eyes would leap to her faithfully.

They remembered.

* * *

><p>Her ears remembered.<p>

Madoka had known the gentle clip-clap of heel to toe that no one else could hear even before it had crossed the doorway. The room was still a roaring cacophony of pre-class gossip and last minute laughs when her ears recognised those footsteps. She was just sleepy and hallucination-prone, she dismissed, and she sat down, and her eccentric sensei babbled; and then the transfer student came in.

What followed was music. Her eyelids slouched a moment in contentment, and she listened as the girl introduced herself, and her joy was ethereal. Something was off; her ears knew the voice wasn't the same as it had always been (lacking completely in emotion as it was) but nevertheless, something in it was consistent. Its softness, its mellowness – the octave, the very same notes – and its unwavering firmness of purpose. When Akemi Homura began to speak Madoka's ears prayed that she would never stop.

They remembered.

* * *

><p>Her hands remembered.<p>

Homura's grip on her shoulders had been sudden; it was forceful, yet careful, as though she wanted to jolt her into awakeness without causing any pain. Most people would have drawn back or slapped her away, but Madoka's immediate reaction was to grip back. Her arms lunged forwards and held onto the shirt immediately ahead, and suddenly all she wanted to do was pull her closer, but Homura kept them apart. The nerve endings in her skinny fingers were like fireworks ready to fly; she knew the line of this fabric, she could tell it apart from all the others in the world. Without being close enough to smell it, Madoka knew its scent, too; and without its being exposed she recalled the presence of a long, jagged scar across Homura's stomach right – there. The taller girl fell to her knees, and Madoka knew the calluses of her fingers as they held her own. Her hands had never felt more at home than in Homura's.

They remembered.

* * *

><p>Her feet remembered.<p>

She wiggled her toes nervously, and then quickly relaxed into her touch.

A feeling had struck Madoka in the middle of the changing rooms earlier that day. She was a slow changer anyway, but recent events' weight on her mind had been slowing her down even further. Homura and the other girls had already left, and she was all alone, letting her hair loose and giving it a ruffle and moving to pull her skirt up, when like a cannon in her head it fired suddenly. Madoka went running like her life depended on it, and the skirt fell to the floor and she had no shoes on, and when she found who she was looking for her feet were bloody.

There was a vague familiarity about the whole scene. She knew to stifle a sneeze so that Homura wouldn't burst angrily at her recklessness, and she knew the gentle, rhythmic back and forth of her hands on her skin.

"Homura-chan... do you wear contact lenses?"

Madoka's feet had ached a moment ago, but in Homura's care they were wonderfully numb.

They remembered.

* * *

><p>Her lips remembered.<p>

It had been desperation. She was desperate for someone who knew the situation and felt emotions; desperate to be held and consoled and to see the next day. It wasn't until she had actually arrived at her mysterious classmate's apartment that she realised this wasn't _quite_ the case, though; Madoka wasn't desperate for _someone_, she was desperate for Homura herself.

The room was cold, and the silence was cold, and only the presence beside her was emanating warmth. Madoka shuffled over and asked her tentatively if they could forget just for the night; but when their lips touched she remembered. Her body remembered the light, even and unimposing weight of Homura's on hers; her heart remembered the speed at which it used to run; her soul remembered perfection. Homura tasted heavily of salt water and blueberries, and the longer Madoka relished it the more she remembered tomorrow; but if this was remembering, then she never wanted to forget. She spent the night in Homura's strong, loving arms, and in the morning she kissed her until it was time for her to go.

Her lips remembered that no one in the world could love her more than Akemi Homura.

So when she sold her soul to save her – well – Madoka was only returning the favour.


End file.
